The Villain Professor's Second Chance-Chapter 618 : Between Fire, Wards, and Steel (1)

The constructs never screamed or showed any sign of pain, but it jerked backward, letting its arcane shield soak the brunt of the fire. Meanwhile, I whipped my gaze to the second construct. It was already bounding over the flames I'd laid down, landing with a resounding clang behind me. The metal clang reverberated up my spine, a stark reminder of how cornered we were becoming. I angled the Psychokinesis Pen behind my back, using a wave of force to push it away before it could land a blow.

In the swirl of heat and flickering shadows, I noticed the corridor lights dimming momentarily. Kyrion must have managed to snuff out one of the scrying nodes. That gave me a second of relative anonymity, a moment to shift positions without broadcasting every detail to the entire fortress. Good. Every edge counted.

A faint grunt drew my attention to Kyrion again. He looked pale, even beneath the haze of alarms and flickering wards. The necromantic wards were resisting him fiercely, and it was obvious he couldn't push much harder without risking serious backlash. But the wards were weakening; the corridor's interlocking sigils throbbed with uneven pulses, indicating they were close to giving way.

Two down, I told myself, my mind sorting through immediate threats. The constructs were regrouping, forming a wedge pattern. The fortress must have recognized that our chaotic maneuvers were effective, so it was forcing them to adopt a more aggressive, cornering approach. My breathing quickened as I weighed the probabilities of success if we were forced into a drawn-out fight. We needed Kyrion to finish or we'd be pinned.

It was then I heard the hiss of mechanical joints from somewhere behind the row of constructs. Reinforcements, no doubt. More of them. The corridor was stifling, not just from the heat of my flames but also from the crushing sense that each step we took was a step deeper into a deadly labyrinth. A single miscalculation could mean our end.

Still, the alternative—giving up—wasn't an option. I refused to yield, refused to let the Council's fortress decide my fate. I was Draven Arcanum von Drakhan, and I wouldn't let some prewritten destiny or an unfeeling set of wards define my outcome. My mind flicked back to my earliest lessons in magical combat: intelligence and precision could topple even the most imposing foe.

I exhaled sharply, raising my voice so Kyrion could hear over the roar of flames and alarms.

"Kyrion—status!" I shouted.

"Almost... there," he ground out, his voice tight with strain. "The wards are fighting me for every inch."

"Push them a little harder," I commanded, quickly recalculating the angles of the corridor. "I'll keep these things busy."

He nodded, but I caught the flicker of doubt in his eyes. That was all the time we had to exchange before I whirled back, confronting the encroaching constructs. They advanced with measured steps, clearly trying to box me in. Their glowing cores pulsed in synchronized patterns. If I allowed them to fully surround me, I'd have no room to dodge.

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I braced my shoulders, letting my stance settle. My pens glimmered in the haze, loyal to my every whim. The Fire Pen crackled with residual heat, while the Psychokinesis Pen thrummed in anticipation of another parry or deflection. A new plan coalesced in my thoughts: force them to cluster, then strike in a wave that might knock them aside long enough for Kyrion to finish.

I inhaled, feeling the swirl of mana in my core. "Focus," I muttered under my breath, as if commanding my own mind to sharpen even further.

A spark of movement: the lead construct lunged again. I felt it more than saw it. My body reacted on instinct, swirling to the side in a half-turn, swinging the Psychokinesis Pen up to divert the blade of force. Sparks erupted around us. The second and third constructs followed immediately, one unleashing a hail of small, whirring orbs of condensed arcane energy. They homed in on me, needles of light that promised agony.

With a flourish, I directed a barrier around myself, courtesy of the Psychokinesis Pen's capability to manipulate intangible forces. The orbs shattered harmlessly against the shimmering bubble of telekinetic energy, spitting arcs of light that ricocheted across the floor.

The fourth and fifth constructs were still out of range, but I saw them splitting, flanking me from opposite sides. The corridor was wide enough for them to circle around if they were careful, and that spelled danger. My thoughts flicked to Kyrion. We needed just another few seconds…

Suddenly, the wards above us dimmed again—an intense shudder passing through the corridor. The fortress let out a groan, like an ancient beast wounded from within. Kyrion must've delivered a final surge of necromantic interference, because I could sense the magical fabric unraveling at the edges.

The constructs noticed it too. Their steps faltered, cores flashing more rapidly. They were receiving new data from the fortress, probably an update to hold their positions until the wards could restabilize. Taking advantage of that hesitation, I lashed out with a potent wave from the Fire Pen, sending a rolling tide of flame through the middle of their formation. The inferno roared hungrily, forging a blazing path that forced the constructs to scatter.

That was my opening.

"Kyrion, move!" I barked, hearing him let out a ragged breath. He peeled himself from the wall, and together we pushed forward into the narrow side passage whose wards he had just disrupted. Stone fragments crumbled from the ceiling, and the flicker of runic lines overhead signaled the fortress's distress.

For a moment, I dared to hope we could outrun the constructs. If the wards were down, at least for a short stretch, we might slip through to an unguarded corridor or one of the lesser-known maintenance shafts. But Aetherion was not so easily fooled. The fortress might have been centuries old, but it was far from senile. Alarms redoubled—an earsplitting tone that rattled my skull—while distant booms suggested other corridors were snapping into lockdown mode. Reinforcements would converge on us soon.

Amid the roaring chaos, I forced my mind to remain crystalline. My father once told me that a calm heart sees all possibilities. Well, in this moment, every possibility led to a fight or a flight, and I chose to fight for an escape. My eyes flicked back to Kyrion, verifying that he still drew breath. He did, but the heavy lines of strain carved into his youthful face indicated a price had been paid. Necromantic wards were no joke.

The corridor here was narrower, the space gloomier. Smoke from the earlier fire hung in a lazy haze near the ceiling, tinted by the fortress's ambient glow. My footsteps struck the floor in quick, decisive beats, every sense straining for the next threat. Kyrion's breathing rasped at my side, though he managed to keep pace.

"Don't burn yourself out," I said, my tone clipped. "We'll need you for whatever's coming."

A dry chuckle escaped his lips, though it sounded more like a ragged cough. "It's a little late for that caution. But I appreciate the sentiment."

We rounded a corner, expecting more constructs. Instead, we were momentarily alone with just the flicker of the corridor's failing lights. The fortress's wards here were weaker—Kyrion's interference had seen to that—so the scriers might be struggling to track us in real time. The reprieve wouldn't last, but it was enough for me to assess our next step.

"Kyrion," I muttered, risking a glance behind us to confirm we weren't immediately pursued. "We can't keep whittling down their forces. This fortress has an army."

He exhaled slowly, trying to compose himself. "Then what do you propose?"

Before I could respond, the corridor trembled again. Tiny fissures ran up the walls, bits of stone flaking off with each quake. The fortress was truly destabilizing. If we didn't escape soon, we might be crushed under collapsing arches or lost in a chaotic meltdown of wards. I forced my voice into a calm register, giving orders like I was addressing a squad of soldiers.

"There's a side route behind this cluster of corridors," I said. "If we cut through, we might reach the old maintenance shafts before they seal them off. But we'll need a massive diversion."

My mind raced. Could we orchestrate illusions big enough to draw the fortress's attention away? Or maybe sabotage a major ward node, forcing the fortress to allocate resources to self-repair?

Kyrion's eyes narrowed with renewed determination. "A diversion. Leave that to me."

I almost asked if he had the mana for it, but I knew better than to doubt him in a pinch. Necromancers were notoriously resourceful, and Kyrion in particular had shown a flair for cunning illusions and reanimations that could mislead entire squads of enemies. If he could muster that one last push, it might buy us the time we so desperately needed.

Just then, the ground lurched beneath our feet, and the corridor ahead flooded with a brilliant blue light. My heart seized, half-expecting a wave of enemy constructs. Instead, I realized it was an arcane reactor point—a localized hotspot of raw mana that flickered sporadically through Aetherion's hallways whenever wards were tampered with. The surging glow cast wild shadows on the walls, warping everything into a dizzying kaleidoscope of shapes.

We slowed, uncertain. Another miscalculation here could fry us on the spot—raw mana surges were as deadly as any foe.

"Careful,"